


Sleeping Pills

by CorvidFightClub



Series: Life in the Crime Scene [2]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blackwatch Jesse McCree, M/M, Scion Hanzo Shimada, Stress Insomnia, eventual D/s, hanzo and jesse meet, some medical talk, this is genji's fault
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-23
Updated: 2018-08-23
Packaged: 2019-07-01 16:52:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15778161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CorvidFightClub/pseuds/CorvidFightClub
Summary: Hanzo can't sleep.





	Sleeping Pills

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so this should technically be the first chronologically in the series but I can't be assed to reorder them. As promised, this is the backstory on why this is all going to be Genji's fault. 
> 
> This series is entirely indulgent for me.

“It is customary to sit, Mr. Shimada,” Dr. Zeigler chided as she washed her hands in the examination room sink. 

 

Hanzo ignored her in favor of standing next to the medical table, hands clasped behind his back as he examined the finer details of the painting on the wall. He wrinkled his nose. Not even a decent copy of the artist’s work. “I cannot sleep,” he answered. “Prescribe me something so I may be on my way.”

 

Dr. Zeigler pressed a hand to her cheek, eyebrows rising in mock-surprise. “Goodness, when did you have time to get a medical degree? No? Then don’t presume to do my job for me.” She snapped on a pair of gloves. “I’m going to take your vitals and order bloodwork.”

 

He gave her a withering look. “Why?”

 

“Because you haven’t seen anyone outside of the occasional back-alley sawbones in years.” The doctor gestured to the table. “Please sit or properly refuse my care so we can both get on with our days.”

 

Hanzo had been skeptical of the Elders contracting with the petite blonde doctor, but the more he saw of her, the more he approved of their choice. He set one of the extra chairs in the middle of the room and sat in it instead. A compromise. 

 

He hated doctors.

 

Dr. Zeigler worked her way around him, poking and prodding, asking questions as she wrapped his arm in a band to check his blood pressure. 

 

“Do you smoke?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Drink?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Weekly?”

 

“Often.”

 

Dr. Zeigler puffed her cheeks out as she watched the gauge on the blood pressure meter rise and fall. “At least you’re honest, I suppose.” She put away the cuff and made notes on a clipboard. “Anything else abnormal or new? Changes in diet or exercise?”

 

“No,” Hanzo answered, brushing lint off his shirt sleeve. “I eat well and exercise regularly.” More than regularly now. Three times daily he commanded his trainers to do their best to tire him out in hopes of getting sleep. Instead he lay awake, queasy, and felt his muscles complain from being overworked. Hanzo folded his arms. “I attempt to sleep, begin to drift, then snap awake again.” He clenched his jaw. “It is maddening.” 

 

“Hm.” Dr. Zeigler tapped her pen against her clipboard. “How stressed would you say you are? Are you taking time to relax at home? More projects at the workplace?”

 

Hanzo stared at her for a long moment, then laughed despite himself. “I do what is necessary, Dr. Zeigler. It is my honor to do so.” 

 

“That’s very noble of you, but your body doesn’t see it that way. Overstressing yourself can manifest as insomnia.” She smiled gently. “Have you seen a therapist?”

 

He glared at her, shoulders stiffening. “I have no need to see one.” To suggest his mind was unsound bordered on insult.

 

She looked about to argue, then sat back in her chair, making a few more notes on her clipboard. “I suggest starting by cutting out caffeine from your diet. Try meditating before bed and don’t use any smart devices at least an hour before you’re trying to sleep.” She tore off a script and handed it to him. “This is a mild antihistamine. It should help. Give me a call in a few days a let me know how you’re doing.”

 

Hanzo left the office tucking the script away in the breast pocket of his vest, his bodyguards falling into step as they made their way to the car. His phone buzzed in his pocket and Hanzo fished it out.

 

_ Genji: how did it go? _

Hanzo sighed through his nose. He slid into the back seat of the car before typing his answer. 

 

_ I was given allergy medication and told to relax. _

 

_ Genji: u dont have allergies. And i couldve told you that. Come 2 the club tonite and get drinks with us!! _

 

_ I have meetings with stakeholders and a new partner dinner to attend. _

 

_ Genji: ur no fun. This is why you cant sleep. U need to get laid. _

 

_ Sex is not the solution to everything. _

 

_ Genji: it is if u try hard enough. _

 

Hanzo shoved his phone back into his pocket and rubbed his eyes. Half of the work on his plate should have been Genji’s. Instead, he’d been born responsible and had gotten the lion’s share. As the scenery flashed by, he let himself fantasize about a clean hotel room, wine, a warm body in bed with him. 

 

Chie’s oval face and wicked eyes flashed through his mind. He felt no regret that his fantasies didn’t include her. She was the latest in a slew of hand-picked women the clan had insisted he court. Slender, charming, brimming with intelligence and grace, she was everything a man could want if he desired women. They had gone on two dates thus far and were headed for a third unless something drastic took place. 

 

Hanzo had never wished for a natural disaster so fervently in his life. 

 

Hours later found Hanzo walking down the dim corridor to his room, loosening his tie as he went. Fatigue sat on him like a weight, drawing his eyelids down, making his bones ache. Somewhere close by, Genji was drinking with friends, their shouts and laughter barely muffled by the thin walls. Hanzo reached for the door to his room and hesitated. It was slightly ajar. Faint light shone through the papering of the walls. Gripping the gun hidden at the small of his back, Hanzo slid open the door and drew. 

 

A tall man dressed in black stood at the window, making no effort to hide or find cover. The man turned, thumbs hooked in his belt. He regarded the gun without a sign of apprehension. “Appreciate it if you didn’t shoot me right off, thanks,” the man said. His accent was American, the hint of a drawl betraying him as southern. 

 

“What are you doing here?” Hanzo demanded.

 

The man raised one hand, flicked it, a card appearing between his fingers. “Just paper,” he said, and tossed it casually towards Hanzo.

 

Hanzo caught the business card without lowering his gun and inspected the simple block lettering.

 

_ Jesse McCree _

_ Professional Dominant, Occasional Sir  _

 

“This explains nothing about why you’re in my room,” Hanzo snapped, flinging the card over his shoulder. 

 

Jesse raised an eyebrow. He crossed his arms. “You’re not expecting me?”

 

“No.”

 

“That little shit.”

 

“Naaaaaa,” Genji draped himself over Hanzo’s shoulder, trying to push the hand holding the gun down. “That’s not what he’s for!” The smell of alcohol on him was cloying.

 

Hanzo fought with everything he had not to roll his eyes in the presence of this “Jesse McCree”. “What is he ‘for’, then, brother?”

 

Genji made a circle with one hand and shoved his pointer finger enthusiastically through it.

 

McCree was glaring at Genji now. “I take it he didn’t tell you and this ain’t somethin’ you’re into, is it?” he asked Hanzo.

 

“Very astute observations.”

 

“In that case, apologies,” McCree said, picking up a cowboy hat from the table and setting it on his head. “I’ll be outta your hair once I shake down your brother over there for the rest of what he owes me.”

 

Genji sputtered, “But you didn’t even--”

 

“Look kid, unless you wanna be blacklisted at every club from here to Chengdu, you’re gonna wanna pay up.”  McCree extended one large hand, fingers curled.

 

Turning to Hanzo, Genji’s face was a masterwork of victimhood. “Anija…” An expression that had worked countless times on Sojiro, convincing him to coddle Genji whenever possible. As if Genji must always be shielded from consequences. 

 

“You dishonor yourself,” Hanzo snapped, holstering his gun. “Pay the man and begone from my sight.”

 

Grumbling colorful things under his breath, Genji reached into his pockets, pulling out an assortment of yen and piling it onto McCree’s palm. With one last childish look in Hanzo’s direction, he skulked off in the direction of voices and drink. 

 

Hanzo regarded McCree. “Do you require transportation?” he asked.

 

“I’ll manage,” McCree answered, adjusting his hat. “Sorry again for the wrench in your night. That ain’t my M.O.” He smiled at Hanzo as the bodyguards saw him out. “If you ever get curious, my number’s on the card.”

 

“Goodnight, Mister McCree,” Hanzo replied.

 

The castle had quieted for the night by the time Hanzo slid under the sheets of his bed, gun under his pillow, knife hidden in a fold of the mattress. He shut his eyes, willing his muscles to relax one by one. He had reached the muscles of his shoulders when he felt his mind start to drift into the sweet softness of sleep. His calf muscle twitched. Sleep fled into the recesses of the night. 

 

Hanzo lay in bed for another hour, then rose. He made himself comfortable in the deep chair by the window with a shallow cup of sake, a book, and a cigarette. The window had been left ajar, the night sounds of rural Hanamura lulling him into a doze several times but never the sleep he craved. Hanzo thought of Genji and his friends passed out somewhere in the castle and unreasonable jealousy suffused him. Sleep had been a simple thing, even after Sojiro’s passing. Then the full weight of Oyabun had settled on Hanzo’s shoulders and what time he’d had to himself became a distant memory. Meetings with the Elders, training in the dojo, meals shortened by threats to the business or some emissary from another family, or an Elder who wished to take him aside and tell him everything mistake he had made in the last twenty-eight hours and what the rest of the circle expected as recompense. 

 

Eyes bleary, Hanzo traced the dragon head tattooed on his wrist with his little finger. Did dragons sleep? Or must they always move as sharks did? He wondered if sleeplessness was the first step towards immortality or madness. 

 

When he looked at his wristwatch, the time read four in the morning. Standing, stretching, Hanzo showered, dressed for the dojo and padded to the door as dawn’s gray light touched the windows. Something clung to his foot and Hanzo bent to retrieve it. McCree’s simple business card with its bold lettering. 

 

After staring at it for longer than he should have, Hanzo left it on the bookshelf next to the door. He would dispose of it later. 

 

Three days passed. Hanzo found himself again staring at his ceiling, exhausted but conscious. His arms hurt. One thigh muscle refused to cease throbbing, as overworked as the rest of him. That evening he had sent his kendo trainer home with a cracked skull. A minute loss of control he would no doubt hear about at breakfast. Hanzo could hear the recommendations already. 

 

_ Chie misses you.  _

 

_ When was the last time you’ve spoken?  _

 

_ Perhaps you should advance you relations in a more private sector. _

 

Hanzo rolled onto his stomach, burying his face in his arms with an irritated groan. Uncle Suko had always been a lecherous old shit. Hanzo thought of sitting in his chair with a cigarette and sake, but he’d already finished his book and couldn’t bring himself to find another. He groped for his phone, thumbing the lockscreen open and cycling through his messages. Genji was out somewhere, despite Hanzo having frozen his accounts as punishment for the Mister McCree incident. It was unlikely his brother would be open to conversation with him. 

 

He scrolled past Chie’s message reminding him to message her when he was less busy with family affairs. His avoidance of her bordered on rude at this point yet she seemed immune to anger, watching, waiting, a patient hunter. 

 

The rest were business contacts, some he was friendlier with than others, though none the sort he would try engaging in random conversation at 2AM in the morning. Hanzo kept no close friends. He had neither the time nor the personality. 

 

Hanzo found his eyes going to the bookshelf. Mister McCree’s business card lay innocently on the middle shelf, forgotten until now. 

 

_ “If you ever get curious, my number is on the card.” _

 

No, Hanzo chided himself, laying on his side. Absolutely not. 

 

Curiosity irritated him. What had Genji even said to McCree to get him here? What had Genji even been expecting? Had he been drunk?

 

An investigation was in order, Hanzo decided, rising. He added the number from the card to his contacts and typed a quick message.

 

H: What did my brother tell you?

He sent it without a second thought, now bent on figuring out how much McCree knew thanks to Genji’s indelicate methods. Hanzo sat in his chair by the window, lit a cigarette. His phone buzzed more quickly than he’d anticipated. 

 

M: He said you needed a distraction. 

 

H: I’m sure that’s not how he phrased it.

 

M: Said you were an uptight stick in the mud who couldn’t find chill if a bucket of ice got dumped on you.

 

H: That sounds more true to form. What were your intentions?

 

M: Talk to you, see what you like, then go from there. Why?

 

Hanzo ashed the end of his cigarette in the tray, pondering his response. Before he could type back, another message came through.

 

M: I’m not so great at texting. We could meet for coffee and talk about what I do if you want. 

 

Exhaling smoke, Hanzo considered ending the conversation there. 

 

But it would give him a fine excuse to avoid breakfast with Uncle Suko. 

 

H: Tomorrow, 8AM sharp.


End file.
